


Year by Year

by ofbrothersandteacakes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Canonical Character Death, Fluff, Gen, George Weasley-centric, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Battle of Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 03:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofbrothersandteacakes/pseuds/ofbrothersandteacakes
Summary: The anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts rolls around, year after year. There's no escaping it. George also can't escape the fact that as of the twentieth anniversary, he has officially spent half of his life without Fred at his side.





	Year by Year

**Author's Note:**

> This has taken 9 months of effort. It's quite literally my word child.

_nulla._

By the time it's over, George is exhausted. His ears – because _yes_ , he can hear with both of them – are still ringing from the explosions that had been occurring only moments before. The adrenaline is quickly wearing off; his heart is thudding almost painfully in his chest, and his expression is grim. Nobody, not even the owner of a joke shop, can crack a grin or a joke when the grass surrounding them is littered with bodies. As he stands there, regaining his breath, all George wants to do is go inside and find his family. More pressingly, he wants to find Fred, who he hasn't seen since they agreed to split up in order to cover more secret passages.

“You okay?” Lee asks, giving him a nudge with his elbow. It's a pointless question – there's not a single person on this battlefield that will be okay any time soon. They both know it, yet George manages to give him a weak smile of assurance.

“Course,” he says, a barefaced lie. There's nowhere either of them can look without seeing dead people lying upon the ground. Whether they're friend or foe doesn't matter, not really. Simply knowing that they're _people_ is difficult enough.

Those of them who have survived begin to slowly make their way back towards the castle. Stepping over the bodies is hard, and when possible, George and Lee go around them. Some of the dead are horribly disfigured, and some look as though they've not even been touched. At times, George struggles to swallow down the bile in his throat. There's already a sickening smell in the air. Neither of them say a word the entire time. There isn't anything that could be said, George thinks. When they reach the castle, they're both pale-faced. Changed.

Inside the castle, there's a hum of noise. Some people are rushing about, tending to others, their voices urgent and exhausted at the same time. The louder noise is the sound of people crying. There are bodies already laying in the Great Hall and their friends and family are starting to surround them. Lee hurries over to Angelina and Katie as soon as he spots them, but George stays where he is, gazing around the hall for the slightest splash of red hair.

“ _George_ ,” a garbled voice says behind him, and George spins around, hoping to see his twin. Instead, it's Percy, his face tear stained and his hands wringing anxiously in front of him. When George faces, him, he gives an audible gasp, and George's stomach begins to sink.

“Percy,” he says anyway, relief tingeing his voice. “Merlin, I'm glad to see you. Where's everyone else? Where's Fred?” he asks, and at Fred's name, Percy lets out a sob. George's stomach begins twisting in knots and starts to fall to somewhere near the soles of his feet. “Where's Fred, Percy?” he demands, reaching to grab his older brother's arm. His reaction is too dramatic, too fast; of course Fred is fine. There’s nothing to worry about.

He gives Percy a rough shake when he doesn’t respond quick enough.

Percy's mouth opens and shuts several times, more tears flooding his cheeks the longer he stands there like a fish. “I'm so sorry, George -” he starts, but there's no time for anything else to be said. From the doorway of the Great Hall, a horrendous wailing sound can be heard.

George doesn't need to look to know it's his mother.

When he does look, he sees her supported between Ginny and Fleur. She's sobbing so hard, she can't stand properly. Her knees keep giving way beneath her and her hands are reaching blindly towards Bill and Dad, who are carrying the person George most wanted to see between them. All of them look ragged, and all of their faces are stained with tears.

The world, ruined as it is, starts to crumble even more before George's eyes.

He can hardly process what's happening when his legs turn to water beneath him. His hands don't shoot out to catch his weight, but Percy's do. It's George's turn to be the fish, unable to find the words he wants to say. There's only one word being chanted through his head: _No. No. No. No. No._

Wrong as it is, there's enough space where George and Percy are kneeling for Fred's body to lie. After what feels like a thousand lifetimes and only seconds at the same time, the rest of their family, minus Ron and Charlie, reaches them. With great care, Fred's body is placed on the floor. Immediately, Mum dives free of Ginny and Fleur's hands and flings herself across Fred's chest, sobbing ceaselessly.

Somehow, George musters up the strength to support himself. He bats Percy's hands away and crawls until he reaches Fred's head. He kneels and stares down at the ghost of a laugh that is etched onto his twin's face. “How?” he croaks out, his head remaining bent downwards.

There's a horrible pause before Percy answers. “We were on the seventh floor,” he whispers. “With Ron and Hermione and Harry.” Another pause, and George closes his eyes, swallowing hard. “There was an explosion. The wall -” Percy breaks off, his voice becoming strangled with the effort of explaining. “One second he was making a joke, then the wall just – it just _exploded_.”

As Mum continues to cry, all Dad can do is stroke her hair. Nobody says anything else.

George doesn't shed any tears. All he can do is stare at his twin's face, and distantly wonder how he will ever manage to come back from this.

_i._

George can't remember exactly what the last words he said to Fred were, or what the last thing Fred said to him was. Everything had been so loud and so intense in the moment, George hadn't even considered the fact that was he was saying was goodbye.

In his dreams, Fred calls over his shoulder, “ _See you later_!” as he rushes off to fight. Those three words are enough to make George wake up crying over a later that will never be. The dream happens so often that George manages to convince himself that is the last thing his brother said to him. It's the goodbye that is best suited to his brother as well – there's no point pretending that Fred told him a soppy “I love you” before he ran off into battle. That wasn't Fred.

It's been a year since Fred died. A real comfort has yet to be found; mostly, George remains at the bottom of a bottle of Firewhiskey. Whether his family approves or not doesn't matter – none of his family are Fred, and at the end of the day, it was only Fred's approval that ever mattered. He's gone now. George is alone.

He can do what he wants. Perhaps it's a childish mindset, but George doesn't care. It's the mindset he's had for a year and he has no intention of changing it.

The joke shop sits, repaired but empty, right beneath him. It'd be unthinkable to open on today of all days. Even if George had wanted to, nobody would have came. Everyone – likely everyone except him – was gathered at Hogwarts for a memorial, in honour of those lost during the war. Outside, Diagon Alley is bare and quiet.

Every week without fail, Mum had came to clean his flat for him and to restock his fridge and try to persuade him to come over on Sunday for dinner. Then, his birthday had happened – _his_ birthday alone, a birthday which is no longer Fred's. Mum had came around and broken down at the sight of him, sat, like he often was, in his armchair. She hadn't been back since. His family take it in turns now to refill the fridge and make sure he's actually still alive. As May 2nd approached, they started trying to convince him to come to the memorial. Every time, he had refused.

Like usual, he's sitting in his armchair. All he's wearing is a pair of checked, blue pyjama bottoms. He's certain he's the picture of misery, what with the half-empty bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand and the shadow of a beard starting to make an appearance on his face.

Bill is disgusted. “You could've at least put in some effort, George,” he snaps, as soon as he Apparates into the flat. The sharp crack of it and Bill's voice startles George out of his thoughts.

“Why?” George asks simply, raising his bottle to his lips again. The word comes out more slurred than he intends and Bill shakes his head, his nose wrinkling. “Seriously, Bill, why?” he repeats. “It's not like I'm going anywhere.”

“It's about having some dignity, George,” Bill says, pulling out his wand and beginning to clean the flat up. “Today's been hard on everyone. You can't keep mourning alone like this. It isn't healthy for you.”

All George wants to say is, _Not having Fred here isn't healthy for me._ Instead, he keeps his mouth shut.

Within minutes, the flat is practically spotless. “You aren't going to say anything? Fine. But you can't go on like this. Have today. Tomorrow, you're coming to stay at Shell Cottage,” Bill tells him, his voice firm and leaving little room for an argument, though George still tries.

He rolls his eyes. “You can't force me to go anywhere, Bill,” he retorts.

“Yeah? We'll see about that tomorrow,” Bill says.

Bill goes home not long after that, leaving George alone with his silent flat and quickly emptying bottle. He sighs and takes another long swig, shaking his head slightly. Whether his family liked it or not, he had no intention of working through his grief any time soon. Fred, George was certain, would always plague his mind.

_ii._

“You'll be godfather?” Fleur asks, her face weary but hopeful. Despite her obvious exhaustion, there's light in her eyes. Sat next to her, Bill smiles encouragingly at George, who is cradling baby Victoire as if she's the most fragile thing he's ever held.

For a second, George can only blink. “Me?” he asks, no louder than a whisper. “I thought maybe – you'd ask Charlie or Ron -” he says, swallowing down the sudden emotion that clogs his throat.

Fleur smiles gently at him. “Charlie and Ron 'ave not lived with us for the last year,” she points out.

It's true. It's George who has seen Fleur's bump grow day by day, told it stupid jokes, and sat helping Fleur think of names while Bill was at work. If it _hadn't_ been for baby Victoire, he's not sure moving into Shell Cottage would've been quite as effective. The first few months had been difficult. His constant bad mood and threats to go back to his flat had made for a stressful life for his brother and sister-in-law. It'd only been when they'd announced the pregnancy that he had became more conscious of others. Bill had warned him that stress wouldn't be good for the baby. The last thing George wanted to do was harm something as innocent as an unborn child with his attitude.

George swallows again. “I'd be honoured,” he manages to say, holding the baby a little tighter.

Later, most of the Weasleys will be heading to the memorial at Hogwarts, George included. For now, however, they're all downstairs, chattering amongst themselves. Their hushed conversations can be heard from the bedroom George is currently in. He's the first to meet the baby, aside from the Healer who has left and, of course, the little girl's parents.

She's perfect in every way. George strokes Victoire's cheek with the back of his finger, marvelling at how soft her skin is. Her eyes are shut now, but only moments before, he'd caught a glimpse of her amazing baby blues. There's no sign of discomfort on her face. Beneath the blanket, tiny tufts of blonde hair are visible. Everything about her is flawless – everything about her deserves to _remain_ flawless. This, George knows, is a new beginning for everyone. Victoire, for victory, for the war they won, despite how much was lost along the way.

It's been an overwhelming day. George had woken up dreading it. If Victoire hadn't been born, he has no idea how miserable he could have been. Fred’s been gone for two years. The thought puts a lump in his throat.

“Go relax for a bit, George. It's okay,” Bill assures him, as soon as he sees his brother’s growing discomfort, giving him a small smile.

They've come a long way in the last year. He knows his family is proud of him and he gives Bill a grateful smile as he passes the baby back to Fleur. “I'm sure Mum would break the door down if you didn't let her in here soon anyway,” he jokes weakly.

It earns him a snort from Bill. “Probably,” he agrees.

George spares the small family one more glance before he leaves the room. It's easier now, two years on, but he's not sure he'll ever be as happy as they are without Fred at his side.

_iii._

It's unsurprising when Charlie finds him. The spot behind the chicken coop was always avoided by almost everyone else; it was renowned for belonging to George and Fred. Only Mum dared to approach it, other than Charlie, but that had been when Fred was alive. Now, it seems she isn't willing to invade his space, even if she suspects he's up to no good.

Instead of judging him or reprimanding him for smoking, Charlie sits down beside him and pulls out his own packet. Neither of them say anything as Charlie slots the cigarette between his lips. Wordlessly, George lifts the tip of wand to the end of it and sets it alight.

They sit there, silent, for several minutes. In the distance, George can hear his family singing 'Happy Birthday' to Victoire. George knows that he should be with them, really. He's her godfather, after all, and she's only going to turn one once. The thing is, even though he knows it isn't the truth, it feels as if his entire family has pushed aside grieving Fred in favour of celebrating Victoire's birthday. At the vigil later, he knows that tears will be shed, but right now, it seems as if he's the only one missing Fred.

“She's only a baby, y'know. They can't not celebrate her birthday,” Charlie eventually says, as if he can read George's mind. “It doesn't mean they aren't hurting too.”

“I know that,” George replies quietly. He inhales deeply and closes his eyes for a moment, then exhales again and opens his eyes to watch the smoke twist up and away from him. “I just -” he breaks off, pausing for a moment before sighing. “I just needed space.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Charlie says. They lapse back into silence, neither of them looking at each other. Within a couple of minutes, their cigarettes are no more than stubs. First George drops and crushes his, then Charlie copies him. Even after that, they don't move, opting to remain in a comfortable silence next to each other.

For a second, George can pretend that it's Fred who is sitting by his side, not Charlie. He's the only brother he has left who is a similar height to himself and who has the same build. Then he glances at him, and sees all the ways in which he _isn't_ Fred. His skin is tanned. The sunlight glints off a new, shiny burn on his arm. There isn't a smirk on his face, and the look of mischief in Charlie's eyes is more hardened by the war than Fred's ever had the chance to be.

The spell is broken. George knows it is definitely Charlie who is sat by his side.

“Ron mentioned you're dating someone,” Charlie says after a little while. “Apparently she's visited the shop a few times. Fred dated her?” he prompts.

“Fred took her to the Yule Ball,” George corrects instantly. It's a fact that has made a few of his family members uneasy, all of them thinking he's entered into some sort of unhealthy relationship where they're only together because they both miss Fred. It isn't like that though. George doesn't care how many times he has to put people right.

There's a pause. “I think it's good. Good that you're moving forwards,” Charlie tells him. “You deserve something good.”

A slight smile spreads across George's face. “No need to get soppy on me,” he teases lightly. “But yeah. Angelina is good. Great, actually. I love her,” he says, completely unapologetic about it. “What about you? Anybody in your life?” he asks.

“There's only dragons for me, George,” Charlie chuckles. “They're my good thing. You going to come join the party again?”

George takes a moment to consider, briefly contemplating staying. But Charlie's right. He deserves to enjoy the good things in life, and his niece’s – his god-daughter’s – birthday is one of those things. So after a second, he nods and gets to his feet. His eyes linger briefly on the initials carved into the wood of the chicken coop – 'FW' and 'GW' - and then Charlie throws an arm around his shoulders and walks with him back towards the party.

_iv._

Mum is sat at the kitchen table, crying softly, when George makes his way downstairs to fetch a glass of anything to quench his thirst and distract himself from thoughts of Fred. At 2am, nobody should be awake. But it's May 2nd, the day exceptions need to be made. George wouldn't be shocked if the rest of the house's occupants were secretly awake too, albeit all unwilling to do anything about it. It's the first time they've all stayed in the Burrow prior to the Hogwarts memorial, but it's never been planned for so early in the morning before, either.

Tentatively, he says, “Mum?”

The softness of his voice doesn't stop her jolting upright. She hiccups as she hurriedly wipes at her face, as if she could make all the evidence of her upset vanish in an instant. She soon gives up and lets her hands drop limply onto the table. “Morning, Georgie,” she greets, her voice rough from the crying.

Without asking, George eases himself into an empty chair next to her. The kitchen, usually the most lively place in the house, feels cold and bare around him. The sky outside is an inky black and the window pane reflects his mum's heartbroken face and the solitary candle that is flickering in front of her. “What's the matter?” he asks, as ridiculous a question it may be. It doesn't take a genius to work it out. _Fred_ is the matter, as he so often is, despite the sod being four years gone.

Mum sniffs and makes a futile attempt at wiping her face again. She only succeeds in getting the sleeves of her dressing gown damper. “It's Fred,” she says anyway, swallowing hard. “All of my babies are growing up. Making their own little families,” she goes on, and it's undeniable, because all of her children – except George and Charlie – are married now. “And _Fred_ ,” she chokes out, suddenly getting more tearful again, “Fred never will.”

Truthfully, the thought has crossed George's mind before. Hearing his mum say it makes it feel all the more real and something in his heart tugs. Awkwardly, he reaches out and takes her hands, determined to make it better somehow. “You know he slept around a lot, right? I don't think he was ever going to really settle down,” he tells her, managing a grin for her. It’s a joke, mostly; Fred _did_ sleep around, but he’d also described in plenty of detail how he would like to propose to someone, someday.

A startled laugh escapes Mum's lips, but the tears are still dripping down her cheeks. “I didn't need to know that, George,” she scolds him. There's no way she could deny that she's amused.

George shrugs. “Got a laugh out of you, didn't it?” he says, smirking at her.

“That you did,” Mum agrees, clutching George's hands tightly, like he's her only lifeline. She stares intently at his face, as if she's looking for something, or someone, then her face crumples again. “I miss him _so much_ ,” she sobs, her head dropping down, all previous humour forgotten. “I was always harshest on the two of you. The last thing I did was push him away to hug Percy. What if he didn't know that I love you all equally?” she asks, her voice all warbled.

George's heart breaks a little more. He gets out of his seat and crouches down next to his mum, his arms wrapping themselves tightly around her. “Don't be daft, Mum. Of course he knew. We both knew. We were just the silliest, weren't we?” he says, pulling back to gently tilt her head up with his finger. “He knew, and he loved you, too,” he assures her. With care, he brushes away her tears, and then his arms wrap around her again.

Slowly, the sobs ease away. The two of them are sat there for a long time, hugging each other tightly.

“You should get to bed,” Mum says eventually, patting his face fondly. “We have to be at Hogwarts early tomorrow,” she reminds him, tutting softly. “Don't waste the time you could spend sleeping on silly old me.”

George tuts back at her. “It's not silly to get upset, Mum,” he tells her, but he gets to his feet anyway. “I'll see you in the morning. Night, Mum,” he says, dropping a quick kiss on the top of her head before beginning the trek up the stairs to his room.

When he gets back to his room, he remembers why he went downstairs in the first place, and curses as the parched feeling settles in his mouth again.

_v._

George finds it hard to believe that it's been five years since Fred died. It's been five years since he's heard his voice or saw his face in the flesh. Nowadays, there's no mistaking the man in the mirror for the twin he lost. Five years is long enough to have rid his face of the boyishness it had in the tail-end of the war.

Sometimes he wonders whether they would still be identical, even if Fred were still alive.

“He would've hated that Slytherin colour,” Ron comments, eyeing the Order of Merlin, First Class that George is clutching in his hand. The gold of it is shiny and new and the ribbon is a brilliant green, intended to show how outstandingly brave Fred was. It's taken five years for the Ministry to decide who deserves what class of medal.

George snorts. His finger briefly runs over Fred's name, engraved on the bottom of the box the award is held in. “You're not wrong. He probably wouldn't have signed up for the Order if he knew it'd get him a green medal instead of purple.”

It's a joke and they both know it. There's nothing that could have stopped any of them doing the right thing. The loss of George's ear, despite being terrifying, still hadn't been enough to deter either of them from fighting – in fact, if anything, it had made Fred even more determined to fire back. The colour of a medal would have mattered even less.

The area around the lake is beginning to clear now. Many people are heading back inside the castle for refreshments. The ceremony, which involved handing out all fifty-two medals to the relatives of those who perished in the Battle, had lasted almost two hours. It'll be a few hours before they all head back outside again, to watch the firework display George and Ron are responsible for setting up. It's something new, to elevate some of the sadness surrounding the Battle, and George is proud to be the one making it possible.

George pushes the award into the pocket of his robes, then rubs his hands together. “Let's get started, eh?” he says, pulling the bag of fireworks out of his other pocket. In a flash, the miniature bag is life-size again. “It's going to take forever to set all these up.”

They get to work, ensuring all of the fireworks are in exactly the right place and that all the fuses will work. Some have timers to ensure they go off at the correct moment. The amount of effort it takes would have been made easier had there been three of them, though George does his best not to dwell on that.

“He'd be proud of this,” Ron says afterwards, as they sit and admire their own handiwork.

“I know he would,” George says, because even though it's been five years, he still knows his twin better than he knows himself. “It's not every day you get to set off a load of fireworks legally at a school.” His mind briefly flashes back to Umbridge. The memory of the day they'd left the school had hurt not too long ago, but now the memory causes him to grin. Then he gives a snort, and before he can register what's happening, laughter is falling from between his lips.

Ron looks bemused for a second, then he begins to laugh as well. He's not Fred, but his brain must have quickly gone back to the day his brothers left the school as well.

It's nice, George thinks, to have somebody on a wavelength that's similar to his own again.

 _vi_.

Dad's little workshop at the bottom of the garden is something of a sanctuary for him, a fact everyone in their family knew. The Muggle trinkets stored there had always interested Fred more than they had George. When they were children, Fred's adventures in the workshop had been the only time they'd spent apart, although one of them had eventually got bored every time and gone searching for the other.

On more than one occasion, they'd been told off for sneaking into the workshop alone. Dad still insists that it's dangerous to go in and play with the Muggle objects he has lying around, but he's learned from his own children and long since charmed the door to not open for those who would be considered too young.

It took Dad months to enter the shed again after the Battle, and George longer still.

“This place has barely changed,” George comments, peering around at the variety of Muggle items. Some of them were there when he was small; the biggest difference is that the place is more cluttered, as if his dad hasn't got the heart to throw anything away, and the occasional object is completely unfamiliar to him.

Dad smiles. “It doesn't need to,” he says, his fingers brushing over a Muggle wind chime. It tinkles lightly. “The progress Muggles have made with their technology in the last few years is unbelievable,” he tells him, hurrying across the shed (as fast as the mess would allow) to a pile of items that don't look quite as old as everything else. “Look how much smaller this is! Can you believe it's still a telephone?” he gushes, holding up what appears to be a small brick with buttons. “And this – this is a portable computer,” he says, putting the phone down and lifting up a bulky, black slab.

George raises his eyebrows. “And what's that supposed to do?” he asks.

“Anything! Absolutely anything,” Dad says, lifting the top of the slab away from the bottom to reveal many buttons. “If it's connected to – some sort of large network, I can't remember,” he admits. “It can search for anything. Any question, answered within seconds.” Dad grins again. “How amazing is that?”

“Pretty amazing,” George agrees, his throat suddenly tight. It feels ridiculous, but this is the day that George is able to link anything back to his twin. The excitement in Dad's eyes is so similar to Fred's, it causes a pang of pain to ripple through him. If there's one thing George has learned though, it's that he shouldn't keep these feelings bottled up when they appear. He clears his throat. “Fred would've loved it,” he tells Dad.

Dad freezes, just for a moment, and the grin softens. “Yes, he would've,” he agrees. A silence hangs between them for a couple of minutes, Dad's expression telling of the fact there's something he wants to say. “He came here, after that happened,” he says, lifting a finger to point at George's missing ear. “Did a fair bit of damage, actually.”

George blinks. “Really?” he asks, even though he has no reason to doubt Dad.

“Really. I walked in and found him just smashing whatever he could reach,” Dad says, his smile now a sad one. “Merlin, I don't think I've ever seen him that angry. When I opened the door, he started shouting at me about anything and everything. How awful wizards were, how he wished we were Muggles, how he'd failed at looking out for you.”

Truthfully, George is unsure of whether he ever saw Fred that angry. The closest he can think of is the day they were banned from Quidditch, or when they found out their dad had been bitten by the snake. “I didn't know,” he admits.

“He didn't want you to. You were still recovering,” Dad says. “When he calmed down, he fixed everything he'd damaged. Apologised to me. And we talked about the wars Muggles have had, and how there was no way he could be there every second to watch out for you. I like to think I helped him feel a bit better about the whole thing,” he adds, but then he begins to worry at his lip. “I doubt anything was as much comfort as seeing you were actually okay.”

George hears it. The undercurrent of concern, the fear that Fred didn't love anyone in his family as much as he loved his twin. Over the last six years, George has heard it too many times. “You meant the world to him too, Dad,” he says.

The next smile he receives is watery. “Thank you, George,” Dad says. Slowly, he's made his way across the shed again, back to George's side.

Neither needing to say anything more, George wraps his arms around Dad, his mind fixed on what else he didn't know about his brother.

_vii._

“How often do you think about him?”

George stops running his fingers down Angelina's bare arm. The question was so quiet, he almost missed it. There's only one 'him' she can be talking about, the same 'him' everyone always talks to George about. “Every day,” he admits. Usually, when they talk about Fred, it's over coffee. It is _not_ typically when they're lying in bed, late on the night of May 2nd, naked and vulnerable.

“I used to be so jealous of the both of you,” Angelina sighs, her head resting directly over George's heart. He wonders if she can hear it picking up speed in his chest. “To have somebody _that_ in-sync with you. It seemed...incredible,” she says. She lifts her head to peer up at him. “Was it?”

George isn't sure what she's getting at, why she wants to have this conversation. “The best feeling in the world,” he says anyway, and his fingers begin to trace a pattern on her skin again.

“The most amazing part was how well you complemented one another,” Angelina continues. She lowers her head again and wraps one arm around his waist. “No offence, but he always seemed to be...the ring-leader. The initiator,” she explains, unnecessarily. It's the truth.

Had Angelina been anybody else, George would have been running a mile by now. “What are you getting at, Angie?” he asks softly.

Angelina swallows. “I was going to wait. I know it's probably not right, doing this today of all days. But...I saw you today, on stage, putting on such a brave face and being so strong and I just _knew_. I knew how much I loved you,” she rambles. “And you're not an initiator. We've been dating for over four years, George,” she points out.

George stares at her, still unsure of what's happening. “I don't understand,” he says slowly.

Rather than rambling on, Angelina sits upright and sucks in a deep breath. “I want to marry you, George.”

It's enough to make George's mind go blank. “What,” he says.

“I want to marry you,” Angelina repeats, enunciating each word as clearly as possible. She leans forwards, her lips hovering just above his. “Marry me, George,” she murmurs.

Maybe it's fitting, that one of the biggest moments of George's life was kick-started by a question about Fred. His twin, after all, deserves to be present when something huge occurs – even as merely a memory, it's a comfort to George. Perhaps that why Angelina did it. “Yes,” he tells her, and then he captures her lips with his.

_viii._

Everybody else has disappeared for the night. Ginny, heavily pregnant, is the only person still downstairs, pressing into George's side and occasionally letting out a sigh and shifting. George assumes it's to try and relieve the uncomfortable strain of having a massive bump. Peace and quiet, with the family rapidly growing, is quickly becoming a rarity.

“Harry wants to give him the middle name Severus,” she tells him, out of nowhere. She pulls a face and George copies it. “I know we've all left Fred's name untouched, waiting for you to have children, but...are you going to use it, d'you think?” she asks, her tone inching on hopeful.

All George can do is give her an apologetic look. “We will be, yeah,” he admits. He doesn't even consider giving up Fred's name, not even to protect Ginny's child being tainted by _Severus_. For a second, he wonders if it's selfish – if there's one thing he's learned in the years since Fred's death, it's that he isn't the only person who lost a brother that day – but he knows his siblings came to an agreement long ago that Fred's name was for him to use, nobody else.

Disappointment flickers across Ginny's face and she sighs again. “I tried to sway him towards Rubeus, but he said something about...honouring the dead,” she explains. She looks ashamed of herself as she admits, “No matter what Harry says, I don't feel I need to _honour_ Severus Snape.”

George grimaces and his hand begins to rise up to his ear. “Whether he was aiming for me or not, I still miss my ear,” he tells her.

“It's not even about that – no offence. It's about the way he treated _children_ – the way he treated Neville, the way he treated Hermione – Merlin, I think Harry even forgets the way Snape treated _him_ ,” Ginny says, her voice gradually rising in pitch and volume. Frustration flashes across her face, but then the expression softens. “But Harry's been through a lot,” she says quietly. “I think believing there was one less bad person in the world helps him cope with it all. He still has nightmares, you know?”

“Don't you?” George can't help but ask, because he's certain most who fought in the war are still haunted by what they saw.

Ginny shakes her head. “Not as bad as Harry's,” she says. “He screams and he cries and sometimes – sometimes he can barely breathe when he wakes up,” she confesses, dropping to a hushed whisper, as though somebody will overhear her.

That makes George frown. “Has he talked to someone?” he asks.

Again, Ginny shakes her head. “You know Harry. He's more the bottling up type.”

“I was like that, once,” George hums.

“And you almost self-destructed because of it,” Ginny points out, before taking a deep breath. Something unreadable passes over her face. “You're not like that any more,” she comments, then she dares to look up at him. “Do you think you could try talking to him?” she asks.

At first, George scoffs. But Ginny looks so hopeful, and almost desperate, that it makes him sigh and begin to reconsider. He's made up his mind within seconds. “I can try, yeah,” he agrees.

Ginny beams and gives him the best hug she can manage with her bump interfering.

It's weird to think that only a few years ago, George couldn't help himself, let alone somebody else.

_ix._

The wall in front of them is completely blank. It's made of smooth stone and no part of it suggests that it featured in an explosion only nine years ago, an explosion which took Fred's life.

Of course, George isn't daft enough to hold a grudge against a _wall_. There's just something weird about knowing this is where Fred took his last breath, thought his last thought, and laughed his very last laugh.

Baby Fred knows none of this. He's gurgling away in George's arms, one fist in his mouth and occasionally peeking up at his dad, a grin on his tiny lips. It's okay for George to brag that Fred is the cutest baby he's ever seen. He's met a lot of babies over the last nine years to compare him to and would reach the same conclusion every time. His son is such a beautiful mix of both him and Angelina already, and Fred's wide eyes belong to his namesake as much as they belong to George.

“Your Uncle Fred would've adored you,” George tells him, bouncing his son slightly, making him giggle. “And all of your cousins, but you most of all. He’d probably argue you’re genetically half his.” The words don't mean much to Fred, but he isn't fussing, which George takes as a positive sign.

George turns his back to the wall and slowly lowers himself to the ground, balancing Fred in his lap once he's in a comfortable position. The wall is cooler than he expects it to be, but not enough to push him into getting back to his feet. Little Fred continues to suck on his fist, which is covered in a disgusting amount of saliva. George can't help but find it adorable.

One finger reaches up and gently wraps one of Fred's delicate, dark curls around his finger. When George releases it, it springs back into place. Every part of his baby is soft and cute and perfect, and having even a few moments alone with his son makes George's day.

They sit there for a while, in comfortable quiet. He's glad they brought Fred with them today, despite having briefly considered taking him to Angelina's mother's. During the ceremony, he was as quiet as everybody else, and even excitedly joined in with the clapping when it occurred, although there was no way he knew what it was for.

George knows he's only four months old, but he's already decided he won't be surprised if his son ends up a Ravenclaw.

Eventually, Fred begins to fuss and rub at his eyes, growing tired. George presses a kiss to the back of his son's head before getting to his feet, Fred held securely within his arms the entire time. “Come on, Freddie. Let's get back to everybody else,” he murmurs.

As they walk back down the corridor, towards their family, George can't help but wonder what Fred might’ve named his children, if he'd had chance to have any.

_x._

More likely than not, the reason this anniversary hurts more than usual is because of the fact 'ten' seems like such a huge number. George has spent _ten years_ without Fred by his side, and it feels like a lifetime and as if he'd only seen him yesterday simultaneously.

It surprises him when he walks into Lee's living room and sees all of his radio equipment set up. Involuntarily, he makes a small noise. The last time he saw all of this, Fred had been with him. Snatchers had been on their tails and they'd still laughed and joked their way through Lee's 'Potterwatch'. When Lee had scolded them afterwards, they'd teased him until he laughed too.

Lee turns to look at him and looks alarmed, probably due to the expression George has allowed to settle on his face. “George? You okay?” he asks. “What is it?”

“It's nothing,” George quickly assures him, and then he chokes on a laugh and pulls himself together. “The whole radio thing just – caught me off-guard. Last time I saw all this, I was with Fred,” he explains.

A surprised and upset expression passes across Lee's face, but then he manages a smile. “I remember. I thought you two were going to get us caught,” he says.

“So did we,” George snorts, moving over to Lee's sofa and plopping down onto it with a sigh.

Lee follows suit and they sit in a companionable silence, until Lee breaks it, saying, “Merlin, I miss him.” He follows up with a deep sigh, his expression turning faraway. “Can’t believe it’s been ten years,” he adds, in a quiet and more solemn tone.

“Neither can I,” George agrees. “I’m not sure anyone can.” He rubs at his forehead.

A silence settles between them again. “There’s so much he’s missed out on, y’know? I never imagined Fred, of all people...” Lee trails off. “That day, it didn’t even cross my mind something could’ve happened to him.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and then swallows audibly. “Wish I remembered what the last thing I said to him was.”

“So do I,” George murmurs. “Is there anything you wish you’d told him, beforehand?” he asks. It’s only meant to be a small question, a hypothetical more than anything.

But Lee remains silent for too long, swallows too many times, and looks more hesitant than George has ever seen him. Clearly the question has hit some sort of nerve. “You don’t have to -” George starts to say, but Lee cuts him off quickly by raising a hand.

“No, I think I need to say it. I’ve kept it bottled up long enough,” Lee says before taking a deep breath. “I wish I’d told him that I loved him.”

Whatever George had been expecting, it wasn’t that. All he can do is blink at his best friend and wonder how on _earth_ he’s managed to keep that to himself for the last ten years. “Merlin, Lee. As in, romantically loved?” he presses, unable to stop himself.

Lee shrugs, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I did,” he admits. He swallows again. “Think I still do, actually.” He smiles, somewhat sheepishly. “Didn’t you think it was a little weird I’d never settled down?”

“Honestly, I kind of just...hadn’t pictured you as the relationship type,” George confesses. He still feels rather stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Again, Lee shrugs. “Because it didn’t seem like it mattered any more? Fred’s...gone. I didn’t want to dwell on what could’ve been.” He gives George another smile, this one more bittersweet. “Don’t tell me whether he would’ve felt the same way or not. I think it’d make it worse.”

So George keeps his mouth shut. He’s almost glad Lee doesn’t want him to tell how he thinks Fred would react the declaration, because the truth is, he isn’t _sure_. It hurts to admit that to himself, because yes, he knows Fred had never seemed to care about gender – but he never talked about feeling anything more for Lee than a bond of close friendship.

The silence drags on nearly too long. “Shall we get on with this radio show, then?” George asks eventually.

“Yes, let’s,” Lee says, seemingly more than happy for a distraction from the conversation. It’s the first time they’ve done anything like this for an anniversary of the battle, but it’s a date about new beginnings as much as it is commemorating the end of the war.

As they spring to their feet and towards the equipment, the past is left to dissolve.

_xi._

Seeing the number of lives Voldemort prematurely ended represented by hundreds of lanterns makes it all the more shocking. The vast majority are for those who died in the Battle of Hogwarts; some are for those killed outside of Hogwarts, the magical and Muggle alike. More than half a dozen are for those who struggled in the aftermath of the war. They have therapy groups now, to try and prevent any more deaths like those.

The grass, the same grass George and Lee had crossed eleven years ago while it had been littered with bodies, is a little moist. It smells fresh, clean – there’s no overwhelming stench of death. Harry, sitting quietly next to George, sighs deeply as the two of them stare up at the sky. The crowd around them is slowly dispersing, drifting back to the castle in their own time. It’s calm. Peaceful.

“I don’t think I ever really said thank you,” Harry starts, so suddenly George almost jumps, “To you and Fred. For helping me, my very first day of school.”

George can’t help it. He lets out an incredulous scoff. “Seriously? Harry, mate, if giving us the money to start the joke shop wasn’t thanks enough, saving the world definitely was,” he tells him, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “You never needed to thank us.”

“Well – I just – feel like I do,” Harry says. He sighs again and leans back, the look in his eyes distant, like his mind is stuck back on another May 2nd. “You two seemed untouchable.”

“Nobody’s untouchable, Harry,” George replies, soft and quiet. There’s no point in telling him that _he’d_ felt untouchable, until his ear got lopped off. Even after that, he thought perhaps he and Fred had paid a large enough price for the war to leave them alone from then on. “And us Weasleys formed a pretty large family. Statistically...one of us was going to end up dead. _Especially_ with us all being Gryffindors.” He’d stopped dwelling on what-if-it-had-been-somebody-else long ago.

Apparently that doesn’t offer Harry any comfort, because pain flashes across his face. “That doesn’t make it okay,” he murmurs.

“No,” George agrees. “But we knew what we were doing. That makes it brave.”

High above, the lanterns continue to dance, all moving together and shining as brightly as they possibly can.

_xii._

The smile on Victoire’s face is bright and innocent as she pats the chair next to her at the emptying table, blue eyes staring up at George hopefully. “Come sit next to me, Uncle George!” she encourages, bouncing on the spot.

Of course, George does as he’s asked – what sort of godfather and uncle would he be to deny Victoire such a thing, on her birthday of all days? “Enjoying your birthday?” he asks, unable to hold back a smile of his own.

“Yes, definitely. It’s been amazing,” Victoire says, beaming. “Did you have some of the cake? Wasn’t it really cool?” she asks, pointing to what had started as an impressive dragon and was now little more than a scattering of crumbs. “I knew it would look great,” she boasts.

“You think you’ll be joining Uncle Charlie in Romania any time soon?” George teases lightly. It’s a serious enough question; Victoire’s dragon phase has been going on for a few months now.

With a deep, sad sigh, Victoire shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so. Dragons _are_ really cool, but Uncle Charlie also has lots of burns. Not so cool,” she tells him. “I think I’d just see them from a distance. Maybe help people who they accidentally hurt instead?”

“A wonderful vocation,” George assures her. “Healers are really important.”

Victoire nods and falls quiet. It’s easy to tell when there’s something on her mind, because she averts her gaze and swings her feet and doesn’t bounce nearly as much. So, George prods, asking, “What’s up?”

There’s another sigh and Victoire’s expression drops. She doesn’t like being caught out, but she also isn’t one for lying. “I kind of...really do want to be a Healer so that...people don’t get hurt any more,” she says, her eyes flicking up to George’s missing ear. The serious look on her face doesn’t disappear. “And so that I can save people like Uncle Fred,” she adds.

Now it’s George’s turn to acquire a gutted expression. “Oh,” he says articulately.

“Because – because if there’d been more Healers around, my birthday wouldn’t always feel a little bit _sad_ , would it? They could’ve saved everyone,” Victoire rushes out.

George can’t do anything but sigh. “Nobody can save everyone,” he tells her, as gently as possible.

That obviously isn’t what Victoire wants to hear. Her brows pull together, into a frown. “But you can try. Enough Healers...” she trails off, and George is glad of it, because his heart is beginning to ache, hurting with what-ifs he’s already spent too much time dwelling on.

“Sometimes people gone too quick for you to be able to do anything.”

Sadness oozes from every part of Victoire, her eyes suddenly devastated. They settle into a silence then, the two of them, sat there, with the rest of their family mingling a distance away.

“Do you ever wish...” Victoire starts, then she takes a deep breath. “Do you wish it hadn’t been quick? So that you could say goodbye?” she asks, looking frustrated with herself for not having a better way to word what she’s saying. But George understands.

He’s had more than enough time to think on the question. Hell, he’s dreamt enough alternate universes where Fred had died slowly and painfully, croaking out his final goodbyes, to know he would never want that for his twin.

“No,” he says honestly, shaking his head. “Never. Quick and painless is the way it should be.”

There’s a long pause as Victoire processes what he’s said, looking as if she can’t find anything more to say or ask. “I’m sorry he’s gone,” she murmurs eventually. “I wish I’d met him.”

George can only smile sadly at her and reply, “Me too.”

_xiii._

Everybody else is milling around the Burrow, making casual conversation. But George is sat on the sofa next to Roxanne, who turned two not so long ago. She’s flipping through an album Mum has spent the afternoon showing people – George is trying to make sure she doesn’t accidentally do any damage to it, in her excitement to turn the pages. There’s a look of serious concentration on her face as she tries to identify everybody in each picture.

George knows exactly what is coming when her eyebrows knit together even more so than they had before. It’s a picture of him and Fred, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. “Daddy?” Roxy asks, pointing a little finger at Fred. Then it moves to George. “Daddy?” she asks again.

Gently, George lifts her finger and places it back on Fred. “That’s your Uncle Fred,” he explains, patient as ever. It’s not the first time she’s seen pictures, but it’s the first time she’s seen any of them side-by-side. “He was my identical twin.”

All Roxy does is blink at him. “Twin?” she then asks, testing the word out.

“My identical twin, yeah,” George says. “We looked the same.” Roxanne nods slowly, her finger drifting back to George.

“Daddy?” she asks again.

“Yup.”

The finger moves to Fred again.

“Daddy twin,” she announces proudly.

George gives her a bright smile. “Exactly,” he says, nodding and giving her a one-armed hug. “Handsome devils, aren’t we?” he teases. Roxy just giggles and starts to wriggle out of the hug, gripping the album tightly still.

“Wanna show,” she tells him firmly. She’s standing now, staring up at him and doing an excellent impression of Angelina. With the book between her hands, she begins to toddle away. George doesn’t try to stop her, and watches, amused, as his daughter tugs on the clothes of random relatives to get their attention.

She sounds proud each and every time she declares it. Though she struggles to hold up the album and point at the same time, she manages. “Daddy,” she tells whoever will listen, finger on George. “Daddy twin,” she then adds, her finger moving back to Fred. Sometimes, George sees her mixing them up, and can’t help but chuckle.

The intelligence of his children always amazes him. Today is no different. He only wishes Fred could be there too, to be as proud of the kids as he is.

_xiv._

The sight of somebody else in what had once been his and Fred’s bedroom catches George off-guard. He blinks at the back of Audrey’s head, confused. “Er...hello?”

Audrey startles and whips around, pressing a hand against her chest. She takes a deep breath and then lets it out, a smile on her face. “Oh, it’s you, George. Sorry. I just, um, wanted to see where all the original magic happened,” she admits. “Seeing the shop, and hearing all the things Percy says about you two...I couldn’t resist.”

“All good things, I hope,” George says, stepping fully into the room. It’s been immortalised somewhat; the Burrow has had plenty of extensions as more grandchildren have arrived, meaning this room has become a little museum of Fred. It’s boxes of his stuff that litter the room, jumpers in one, old schoolwork in another – stuff that maybe could’ve been binned, but neither George nor Mum have the heart to get rid of it.

“Mostly,” Audrey teases. “I didn’t mean to intrude or anything. I can leave, if you want some time alone?” she offers. “I know this is...well, you know, _the day_ and everything.”

With Audrey being a Muggle, she’s probably the in-law George feels the least close to. But it’s obvious she wants to gain some sort of understanding. Why else would she be here? “No, don’t worry about it,” George tells her. “Take a look around.”

A look of relief passes over Audrey’s face as she begins to move around the room again, her fingers trailing over boxes, as if afraid to do anything more. “I never even met him. But it feels like I know him, in a way? Percy talks about him so much,” she admits. “And he sounds like such a character. Such a good, funny man,” she hums.

George slips his hands into his pockets. “He was,” he says, leaning against the wall. “I mean, he had his flaws. He was only human,” he adds. It’s something he feels his family can often forget, with their wondrous tales of Fred – never describing some of his worse traits, aspects George won’t let go of because they were still a part of his twin.

“I figured. Everybody has their faults, after all,” Audrey says, shrugging. “Don’t suppose you’d want to talk a little bit about the real Fred?” she asks. “The Fred with flaws.”

At first, George can only blink at her. Then he finds himself nodding. “Yeah. I think I’d like that,” he tells her. He moves across the room and plops himself down on Fred’s bed, patting the empty space next to him, indicating that Audrey should do the same. She does.

After a quick, encouraging nod from Audrey, he dives into stories of his and Fred’s childhood. He makes sure every time they blew up Percy’s cauldron is included.

_xv._

Lysander and Lorcan are quite peaceful, for babies that are only a handful of weeks old. Both of them are sleeping soundly in Hermione’s arms, light blond hair appearing white in the sun, which is poking through grey clouds. They’re identical, though really, most babies do look the same – but it’s the first time in a long, long while George has seen identical male twins.

“Tempted to keep them?” George teases, not missing the adoring expression on Hermione’s face.

“Only a little. I think I’m done with the late nights,” Hermione chuckles, carefully balancing one baby in each arm. It’s clear she’s struggling a bit; it’s not exactly easy, even if both of the boys are asleep.

Making the decision to help out isn’t difficult. “Here, let me,” he says, reaching to take one of the babies. Which, he isn’t entirely sure. “Huh. Guess I can tell why Mum always struggled telling us apart now,” he comments, peering down at the baby.

That gets a soft snort out of Hermione. “That’s Lorcan,” she tells him. “Thanks. They’re so small but it’s actually pretty hard, holding both of them,” she admits. “Don’t know how Luna does it.”

“Suppose she did carry them for nearly nine months. Plenty of time to become strong,” George jokes. “I thought Luna would’ve taken them into the forest to visit the Thestrals, too?”

Hermione shakes her head. “She didn’t want to risk waking them up. And Rolf was desperate to go into the forest too, so...” She shrugs. “I’m now a babysitter.”

“Well, at least they’re cute,” George says, lifting a finger to lightly brush Lorcan’s cheek. “Very cute. Not quite as cute as Freddie and Roxy.”

“I think you mean not quite as cute as Rose and Hugo,” Hermione corrects with a grin. “You think they’ll be very alike?” she asks, curious.

“Hard to tell,” George says, looking between the two babies. “But I can see them both being eccentric Ravenclaws,” he decides. “Don’t know if a child of Luna’s could be anything else.”

“Hm. They might surprise us,” Hermione says. “Padma and Parvati were in different houses, after all.”

“Yeah, maybe. Me and Fred never really got that,” George admits. “Couldn’t imagine a world where we weren’t in the same house. Guess it just shows biology isn’t everything.”

“How different do you think things would’ve been? If you _had_ been in different houses?”

George wrinkles his nose. It isn’t something he can even imagine. “Not too different?” he eventually replies. “Obviously we wouldn’t have been Beaters together. Might have had different lessons together. But me and Fred...we were too similar to ever stray too far from each other,” he says. Then he falters and lets sadness flicker across his face. “Until, well, y’know.”

With a sad look of her own, Hermione raises her free hand and pats his arm. “I never pictured you two anywhere except next to one another,” she says. Her eyes glance skyward. “He’ll be ready, whenever you go.”

Smiling, in a melancholy sort of way, George follows her gaze. “Yeah. But I’d like to stay here a while longer, first,” he tells her, because there’s far too much in the world depending on him and plenty more he stills wants to experience. Fred would probably kick him right back to the land of living if he dared to show up in the afterlife within the next fifty years, anyway.

_xvi._

In a way, this is where it all began – the second war, that is. The place where George and Fred had their first real _taste_ of death; the place Harry brought Cedric Diggory’s dead body back to. What draws George here, he isn’t certain, but when he arrives at the top of Gryffindor stand, there’s somebody already there.

“Hello, Minerva,” George greets, climbing slowly over the seats until he’s right next to her. She looks older than she ever has before, tiredness etched into all of her features.

And still, she smiles at him. “Good evening, George,” she says. George doesn’t ask if he can sit. He simply plops himself down and follows her gaze, off into the distance, where the sun is beginning to set.

They sit there comfortably. “Everything okay?” George eventually asks.

Minerva inclines her head and gives a small hum. “Never on this date. Not for me,” she admits. She looks at him and her eyes aren’t as piercing as usual. They’re softer. Aged, tired. “Everyone who died in the Battle – I knew them all. They were all my pupils,” she says. It isn’t something George has considered before. His heart pangs in his chest. “At some point, you start to wonder why you’re so old, when they all died so young. When they were all your responsibility.

“Most of them were adults,” is all George can think to say. “They were responsible for themselves.”

“Would you say that if either of your children died, even if it were when they were grown?”

The mere thought causes George to reel back slightly. He blinks, hardly able to believe she would ask such a thing. “No – God, no, of course not. But that’s different, they’re _my_ children -”

A small shake of Minerva’s head effectively cuts him off. “I never had children of my own,” she tells him. “I was too career minded, in my younger days. No time to actually raise any. But those I taught at Hogwarts, they became my children.” She sniffs and raises a handkerchief George hadn’t previously noticed to her eyes. “Every single one of them, especially those in my house. I felt – I felt I was a second mother to many of them.” She takes a deep breath and shakes her head again. “But what sort of mother would encourage her children to take part in such a battle?”

“You tried your best to get those who weren’t of age to leave. And the ones who stayed – that was their choice,” George tries to reassure her, but another shake of Minerva’s head causes him to fade into silence once more. But then he starts again, firmer this time, saying, “No, Minerva, really. Those who chose to stay? They stayed because you raised them to be brave, and strong, and to stand up for what was right. It was right to fight that day, and it’ll carry on being right in future to fight for what’s just.”

The words seem to shock Minerva. She looks up at him, at least, and blinks away her tears, and is silent for a number of minutes. “Never could’ve stopped your brother, could I?” she asks quietly.

“Or the rest of them, I’m sure,” George says.

“You’ve grown quite mature, Mr Weasley.”

George’s lips quirk into a smile. “Somebody has to stop more adult adults like you saying daft things,” he teases lightly. “You’re meant to be the wisest of us all, _Professor_.”

“The young will always be able to teach us more, George.”

_xvii._

Being in a bar isn’t easy, but it’s a lot easier than it was ten years ago. The alcohol isn’t nearly as tempting to George as it used to be. It’s become something of a tradition now, to visit The Hog’s Head, the place that provided an entrance to Hogwarts exactly seventeen years ago. All of the Weasleys – and the extended family – are always around, just in case George _is_ tempted by the drink.

Drink is the last thing on his mind tonight. He’s spent the majority of his time staring at Draco Malfoy, who has tucked himself into a corner and doesn’t seem to have stopped drinking once. There’s always been a glass in his hand.

Approaching him takes no small amount of courage. There’s still tension between the Malfoys and the Weasleys. None of them have forgotten that it was Lucius who gave Ginny that diary, all those years ago. But Draco looks downright miserable, sat on his own, and seems to have no intention of going home any time soon.

“What do you want, _Weasley_?” Draco slurs out, before George can even open his mouth. He’s glaring up at him and even from across the table, George can smell the stench of alcohol.

He wrinkles his nose. “I want to know what on earth could have driven _you_ of all people to drinking alone on May 2 nd,” he says, plopping himself into the chair facing Draco.

“Oh yes, because I’m such an utter little _shit_ aren’t I, that it would make no sense for me to feel emotions on the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts,” Draco snaps, narrowing his eyes. It isn’t even remotely threatening; George just rolls his eyes and then leans forward.

“Look, you might as well tell me what’s got you so miserable,” George tries. “You won’t remember telling me, anyway. And I won’t tell anybody, either,” he promises, crossing his heart.

“Why would I believe you?” Draco asks, arching his eyebrows.

“Because if it’s super depressing, I won’t get anything out of spreading your business. Here, let me correct myself: I’ll only tell people if I find whatever you say really funny,” George amends.

“ _Fine_ ,” Draco hisses, leaning across the table as well. Their faces are mere inches apart. The stench of alcohol makes George want to reel back, but he resists. “I had a Healer over at my house today, examining my very sick wife. They decided to change their prognosis of five to ten years to two, maybe three years,” he explains, slurring the occasional word.

George can only blink at him as he pulls away. Then he clears his throat. “Wow. Merlin, Malfoy, I – I didn’t realise it was like that,” he admits. “Sorry.”

“Happy you pried, now?” Draco taunts. “Going to run off and tell the papers?”

“No. No, of course not. I promised, didn’t I?” George reminds him.

The suspicion and doubt in Draco’s eyes is clear. “Hm. If you say so,” he mutters, pulling away as well and bowing his head so that he’s staring down at his drink.

A heaviness weighs in the air between them both and it lingers for a long while. George is unable to bring himself to try and meet Draco’s eyes again, and Draco is keeping his gaze averted too. The weight only breaks when Draco’s shoulders begin to shake, transforming the air into awkwardness. Then comes the tears, which land on the table until Draco buries his face in his hands.

With a small cough, George begins to straighten up and tucks his chair back under the table, too uncomfortable to sit there any longer. He turns away from the table, avoiding the curious looks of the pub’s other patrons.

“How do you do it?” he hears Draco whisper, his voice hoarse. George spins back to face him, but Draco’s head is still lowered. “Live without your other half?” he asks.

The words taste like ash when he does manage to get them out. “You just do your best,” he says. “And...find others who are willing to help you.”

Draco scoffs and shakes his head. George, feeling oddly pathetic, walks away, struggling to swallow around his clogged throat.

_xviii._

The Muggle village of Ottery St Catchpole has always been quaint and quiet. Most of the Muggles there are old, with very few being younger than sixty, or so George guesses. Truthfully, it's been years since he's visited the village. The few times he has walked down, recently at least, have been brief trips, showing the village to Fred and Roxy, though it's never interested them as much as it used to entertain him and Fred, his twin.

Fred is playing on his mind now, as he walks through the village. Of course he is – it's May 2nd, yet again. The date seems to roll around faster each year. Never has he visited on the anniversary of the battle, and never has he felt so _content_ simply walking and reminiscing about the fun they used to have.

It's like something out of the Muggle films Hermione and Audrey love to show the children some Sundays, when he bumps into _her_. At first, he doesn't process who he's bumped into – she's older now, her black hair cut to her shoulders instead of being down her back, and she doesn't recognise him immediately either.

“My God,” she says when she does, her eyes widening. George and Fred had an in-depth conversation about her eyes once, so long ago now. She stares at him, disbelieving. “ _George_?”

“Katelyn,” he greets, the name of the paper shop girl jumping immediately into his head. There were some things that were impossible to forget, and what he and Fred had got up to over the Christmas of 1996 was one of them. He doesn't know how she identifies him immediately – they haven't seen each other in twenty years, yet she still, apparently, has the knack for telling him and Fred apart. Or maybe she somehow knows where his brother is already?

“Is Fred with you?”

Maybe not.

George swallows and manages, just about, to give her a tight smile. She seems to realise she's said something wrong, because her expression morphs into one of concern. “No,” he says. He clears his throat, which suddenly feels rough. “He, um. He passed away. Eighteen years ago today, actually.”

Instantly, Katelyn's face crumples. “Oh,” she says, her voice small and devastated. Her kindness and empathy had been one of the most attractive things about her. “I'm so sorry, George. That's awful.”

“It’s...the hardest thing I've ever been through, yeah,” George says quietly, seeing no reason to lie.

Katelyn tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear and chews on her bottom lip. “He was a great man,” she tells him, something George has heard plenty of times. “Seriously, I don't think I've laughed so much in my entire life as I did during those two weeks with you both,” she admits, and there's something almost wistful in her voice. George doesn't miss the way her gaze lingers on his wedding ring. He notices that her fingers are bare. “What happened to your -?” she asks, pointing up at his missing ear.

“Had an accident,” is all George says in reply, giving her a shrug, as if it's no big deal. It isn't, really. Not any more.

“Must have been some accident,” Katelyn comments, her eyebrows shooting up, but she doesn't push the matter further. Her gaze drifts to his ring finger again. “Who's the lucky girl?” she then asks, her voice soft.

George clears his throat, barely able to suppress the smile that always crosses his face when he talks about Angelina. “Her name is Angelina. We've been married almost eleven years now,” he tells her.

“Oh, wow.” The smile Katelyn gives him seems sincere. “And are you happy?” she presses.

There's no need to lie, or exaggerate.

“The happiest I've ever been,” George says, and he means every word.

_xix._

Every year without fail, Dennis has brought his brother’s camera to the memorial. It’s the same camera Fred and George had mocked Colin for having when he was just a small first year and it always causes a sharp pang of pain whenever George sees it. In his mind, Colin is still an eleven year old boy, even though he was the same age as Ginny during the Battle of Hogwarts.

The flash goes off when he’s not expecting it and he blinks rapidly, turning to stare at Dennis, his fingers dropping away from where Fred’s named is engraved at the bottom of the statue, alongside the other Fallen Fifty. “Could’ve given me some warning, mate,” he says, his tone dry.

Dennis gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Adds realism when people aren’t expecting it,” he explains. With a great amount of care, Dennis lets the camera come to rest on his chest and then moves to stand beside George, holding up the photo he’s taken for him to see. “See?” he says. In the picture, George, with a more sombre expression than is usually seen on his face, is tracing Fred’s name, a distant look in his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson. Rita Skeeter will not be getting her hands on any of these,” Dennis assures him.

George snorts. “How did she even get a hold of the last ones?” he asks.

In reply, he gets another sheepish smile. “I got drunk in the Leaky Cauldron,” Dennis admits.

All George can do is laugh. “Well done. At least it gave Ginny an excuse to rip into her,” he says. “Doubt she’d try anything like that again any time soon.”

Dennis only nods his agreement. His eyes, like George’s had been only moments before, are now glued to the names as well. Similar to George, he’s found his brother. “We’re always going to miss them, aren’t we?” Dennis hums, almost too quiet for George to hear. “Ghosts in their own way. Stuck in our hearts.”

“Ghosts in the only way they’d allow themselves to be,” George says, fixing his eyes back on Fred’s name. There was a time, once, when he’d hoped Fred would come back as a ghost. “They were too brave to remain here forever.”

“Too brave, full stop, maybe,” Dennis murmurs. George glances at him, but Dennis’ eyes are now looking up at the castle. “I used to think losing Colin wasn’t worth it. But if we’d lost that day...” he trails off, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“We wouldn’t have as much good in the world as we do now,” George finishes for him, lifting a hand and gently patting his shoulder.

They lapse into silence, both of their gazes refocusing on the statue.

Fred and Colin’s names stare out at them, forever carved into stone.

_xx._

What with it being almost five in the morning, George is unsurprised to find the bottom of the garden at the Burrow empty. Nobody else knows he’s here. _There’s no reason for them to know_ , he thinks. He wants this time alone with his twin, on the day which marks him officially having spent half of his entire life without Fred.

As always, he hasn’t bothered to bring flowers. Fred never liked _flowers_. He brings, as he usually does, a mixture of products from the shop. A lot of them are classics, like the Ton Tongue Toffee, one of the first products they’d ever made together. Some of them are newer though, made with the help of Ron. There’s no reason Fred shouldn’t be kept up-to-date, after all.

Paying no attention to the fact the grass is dewy, George kneels before Fred’s headstone. The knees of his trousers soak through instantly. The fact the ground is moist makes it easier to begin to dig and it doesn’t take long to form a hole big enough to plop the products in. Once that’s done, and _only_ once that’s done, George allows himself to look up at the gravestone of his twin. The words remain unchanged, as they have since Victoire’s birth.

 _Resting peacefully_  
_Fred Weasley_  
_April 1 st 1978 – May 2nd 1998_  
_Much loved son, brother, uncle, and jokester_

Despite Mum’s offer, he hadn’t wanted ‘twin’ engraved on the stone, not feeling it was his place to set such a unique claim on Fred, a claim that could’ve left his siblings feeling less important. Reading over the words causes a lump to form in George’s throat.

Calloused fingers trace the date and before he can stop it, devastation is tearing through him. A sob works its way up his throat and he can’t bite it down. The pain is nearly as unbearable as it was that very first day. So much has changed since then, but he can’t escape the fact he’ll always miss Fred. His mistake, that first year, was thinking he would never be able to _live_ with always missing Fred.

He can – hell, he _has_ , and he knows he’ll be able to continue to do so.

After the hole is filled in, he remains kneeling in front of the headstone. He isn’t ready to leave Fred yet. The pain inside of George is persistent though, a cloud of anguish that wrapped itself around his heart twenty years ago and has only faded somewhat, never vanished.

“You bastard,” he hears himself say and he raises a fist, hits it weakly off the stone, but not hard enough to cause himself any pain. It’s just enough to make his point – that he hates the fact Fred is dead, hates the fact he’s been left to deal with these waves of misery, year after year. He presses his head to the cool stone, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down rapidly as he attempts to get his emotions back under control. “You’ve missed so much. I miss you so much.”

How much time passes, he isn’t sure, but when he finally raises his head, he feels considerably lighter.

George lets out a long sigh and slowly gets to his feet, his knees clicking with the effort. The tips of his fingers run gently over the top of Fred’s headstone, and then his hand drops back to his side. He takes a deep breath and smiles, just a little. The sun is rising in the distance. George’s shadow overlaps with that of Fred’s grave. He turns to start the walk back towards the Burrow.

Only once does he glance over his shoulder, calling, “I’ll see you later,” to Fred.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to see when I post more stuff, follow me on [Tumblr!](https://ofbrothersandteacakes.tumblr.com/)


End file.
